Canticle of Air
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: "How do you know all that?" "Duncan told me." "The previous Warden-Commander, yes? You knew him?" "You could say so." They fall silent. Nathaniel keeps glancing at her hands, but finally asks. "What happened to your palm?" "I got burned," she answers cryptically. Yes, she thinks, I got burned, but now I carry the fire within me. ['Canticle of Fire' sequel.]
1. Gale

_If you've read _Canticle of Fire ( s/8948494/1/Canticle-of-Fire)_, this takes things further. If you haven't, this story will make little sense without it._

DA: Awakening_ and beyond. Spoilers for _The Calling_._

_(I'd love to make all this into a mod, if I only knew a thing about modding...)_

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><p><strong>I: Gale<strong>

**. . .**

She tries to fall asleep, but all the doubts chase sleep away. Cousland leaves the bedroom, which she still finds difficult to think of as hers, for it is not her place, it never will be, not Amaranthine, of all places...

The night air is cold, but the sky is clear and full of stars. Cousland wishes her path was half as clear as the sky. She walks along the wall of the Keep, to and fro, lost in thoughts. Doubts and decisions all over again, and she just shakes her head and smiles mirthlessly because she willingly signed for it. Not without some amount of coaxing, but... And then a thought strikes her.

The dwarven woman, Utha. The Architect mentioned she had been a Grey Warden once. And if that is true, there is someone who can give her answers.

Cousland hurries down and knocks at Velanna's door. The elf opens, grimacing, wiping the sleep away from her eyes.

"What is it, Commander?"

"Velanna, I need a sleeping draught."

The elven mage frowns. "What in Thedas for? You once said you're used to nightmares."

Cousland hesitates. "It's not for nightmares." Maker, why cannot Wynne be here where she needs her most? For a moment, she contemplates telling the truth... But who would believe that? There are moments even she does not believe her own memories. But then there are also moments when her memories seems clearer than reality. "I just have too much on my mind," she mutters. "I want to sleep, but all I can do is thinking." This, at least, is true.

The elven mage nods sympathetically. "Fine. Go get into bed, I'll get you something. Something mild, since it's so late."

As promised, Velanna brings the potions a few minutes later. But it does not work.

Oh, yes, Cousland falls asleep, but there are no dreams. And she needs dreams. Just one dream. But she feels reluctant to explain it all to Velanna. Even more so to Anders; however likeable he seems, she cannot quite bring herself to trust him.

Maybe, if Wynne still was in Amaranthine, she could... As soon as Cousland is dressed, she writes a letter and hurries to find Nathaniel.

"Something happened?" Nathaniel asks, concerned, when she knocks at his door.

She hands him the envelope. "I need you to get this to Amaranthine. Remember that elderly lady mage we encountered?"

"Yes. Your friend, if I recall correctly."

"Yes. If she's still in the city, give this to her and take whatever she will give you."

Nathaniel nods. "Private business?" he asks, with mild curiosity, but not prying.

"Ah, I wish." She lets out a short laugh. "Warden business."

"Secret Warden business, I see," he remarks. There is open curiosity is his eyes now, but he does not press for answers.

"Isn't all Warden business secret?" she asks wryly, which earns her a short bark of laughter from Nathaniel.

"Aye, that it is. Very well, Commander, it will be done."

"Nate, I've told you so many times..."

"Oh, yes, I know. Don't think I don't remember." He smiles lazily, as if he was teasing a younger sister. "I just enjoy watching that look on your face far too much to ever stop calling you that."

She sighs wearily, her brief moment of good humour evaporating suddenly, and for no apparent reason. "Nathaniel, please."

The look in his eyes turns concerned, but he knows better than to ask. "I am sorry," he says quietly. "For whatever it is."

. . .

When Nathaniel returns from Amaranthine, he brings her a small package from Wynne. Inside, she finds a bottle of some yellow liquid – how curious, how ironic that is should have such a warm shade, like bottled sunshine – and a note. She reads is quietly, aware of Nathaniel's attentive gaze on her, and she keeps her face impassive. Nathaniel is observant, and smart, and he should not learn too much about the whole thing. Not yet, anyway.

Wynne's note is short, but the words are laced with friendly concern. Cousland realises how much she misses the elderly mage and her advice.

_One dream,_ reads the note_, that is what this bottle will give you. I will not risk more._

_Child, be careful. The fire can warm up, but it can also burn. Despite all I've said to you about this, and despite all you know yourself, please be careful. You might not be able to judge this right._

_Maker guide your steps. W._

Thank you, she thinks, thank you, Wynne. She is aware of the risk, but if the worst came to be, Nathaniel would replace her, and he would be a good Warden Commander, if slightly gloomy. And of all the decision she has to make, she would rather not make that one blindly. Saving the world, she thinks with a rueful smile, is tiring.

"Is that what you hoped for?" Nathaniel asks, not able to contain his curiosity any longer.

Cousland's smile changes, becomes more bitter. And yet also more hopeful. "We will find out soon."

. . .

She closes her eyes and steps into the dream, concentrating on one thought only, and there it is: the familiar forest. The squirrel is sitting on a log, looking at her expectantly and waiting for a nut. Then, realizing there will be no food today, the squirrel darts up towards the treetops.

At the edge of the forest, Cousland stops, not entering the clearing. This is only a dream, and it does not matter, but life on the road taught her to be wary of open spaces.

Then she closes her eyes. "Duncan!" she calls, loud and clear. There is a moment of stillness, and then the taint in her blood sings quietly, as it never sings for her fellow Wardens. This little song is different, like a signature.

"You gave your word," he says, his words a gentle reproach.

She opens her eyes. "I'm here for answers, Duncan. Nothing more." And she does not allow herself even a thought more, just what she came here for, because she does not know how much time she has, and too much is at stake. Again. She is really getting weary of this, and it hurts a little to push feelings aside when she can see his face and look into his eyes again, but there is no time. Duncan, if anyone, will understand.

He gestures towards the fallen tree and they both sit down, but not close enough to touch. There is concern in his eyes, and a warmer look to them, but with a great effort of will she ignores both.

"The Architect. We've met him... it... I don't believe his promises. I don't believe it's possible. We wouldn't have fought as hard as we have if it were, would we?" She sighs. "I... I am weary, Duncan, I no longer trust my judgement. Please, help me," she pleads.

There is pain in his eyes, but it quickly gives way to kindness, and to duty that is painfully alike indifference. "Yes, the Architect didn't lie. He can give it to you. No need to fight anymore. A world of ghouls." Whatever memories he is looking at, they must be terrible. "It's too long a story, but when we met him, some of us listened to his promises... And then they died trying to stop him."

"But the dwarven woman...?"

Duncan shakes his head. "I only know what I've seen with my own eyes. I don't know if this is the answer you need."

"What I've seen with my own eyes..." she mutters. "Yes. Yes, I think that is my answer." Cousland looks up at him, and smiles, and that smile hurts. "Thank you, Duncan," she whispers.

There is fondness in his eyes, and a smile similar to her own appears on his lips: half-broken, half-hopeful, despite everything, and tinged with regret. Feelings flood her, and everything comes back to her, and she wonders how could she have ever doubted it even existed at all.

She touches his face, unable to stop herself, and then leans over and presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, closing her eyes, wishing to memorise this moment, his skin warm under her lips and hand, his deep intake of breath... As she pulls away, Duncan's hands grip her shoulders.

"You can't come back here," he says quietly. "Please."

There is something deeper to his words, she can sense that. "What is it?" she asks softly.

Duncan does not answer.

She takes his hand in hers and begins lightly tracing patterns on the inside of his palm. There it is again, that reserve she has always sensed in him. But now, finally, she has a vague idea what it is. "What are you so afraid of, Duncan?"

His sigh comes soft like a lightest breath. "Of hurting you." His fingers close around hers. "I feel I am taking something from you, something I have no right to take, but I cannot do anything about it if you don't."

"But you answered my call."

Duncan laughs, a quiet, involuntary laughter. Nervous? "I am not without faults." He sounds troubled. "Neither I am made of stone."

Cousland looks into his eyes. "Then what are you made of?" she asks in a whisper.

His hands slide up her arms to lightly rest on her shoulders. "What are souls made of? What are we made of?" His eyes are deep, bottomless... There is doubt, still, but beyond that there is a sea of fondness and yearning. It is not desire, for he is but a spirit, a soul, and there can be no desire where there is no flesh.

But the feelings and emotions are still there, deeper maybe than in life, the core of being. And she can see his doubts are just another facet of what she has always hoped to see in his eyes, of what she now knows she has but glimpsed back then in the Fade, and the discovery leaves her breathless.

"Duncan..."

He leans over and she freezes in expectation, because surely that cannot be possible, if it has not happened yet why should it happen now... Duncan kisses her gently, and she melts, because in his kiss she finds infinite tenderness and love, boundless, and it touches her as only a soul can touch another soul. She trembles in his arms.

"Duncan..."

He shakes his head, and his eyes fill with sorrow and guilt. "Now you understand," he says quietly. "I'm taking what I have no right to take." He moves to pull away from her and leave, but she grabs his tunic, and a fistful of his hair.

"Now it's time you understood," she says firmly, and presses her lips to his in a gentlest of kisses. She has learned to live again, she has found friendships. She has taken up the burden of difficult decisions again, and willingly so. But she does not want another man.

Duncan looks at her, dazed, as if he has just heard her thoughts. Maybe he has, she thinks. This is, after all, a joining of souls.

"I gave you my word. And you accepted it." She smiles at him with the confidence she does not feel. "That will not erase you from my thoughts," she whispers, and when she touches his face he draws her into his arms. His kiss is soft and gentle, loving, and it makes her heart ache, but it is a good kind of pain.

When they part, he looks at her tenderly. "You know it cannot go on."

"Yes, I know. I gave you my word. I'm not going to go back on it." She winds her arms around his neck and clings to him, and though she knows she is dreaming, he is warm, and real, and as much alive as she is. "You promised you'll be there for me. At the end of the road."

"That's hardly the end of it." But his hands come up to cradle her to him, and his cheek comes to rest on the top of her head.

"Be with me, Duncan," she whispers.

"I am. I will be. Just not like this."

"It's a lonely watch, isn't it?" she asks, knowing he will understand her words. There is more peace, in a way, where he is, but also empty spaces and more silence, and that is not always a comfort.

"Yes," he admits finally. "Yes, it is."

"So dream with me."

He says nothing, just buries his face in her hair, and that is all the answer she needs. Under all the armour of self-control and composure, there is a soul as tired as her own. And just as he had had enough peace in his life to comfort her when she needed it most, she now has enough peace in hers to share with him. Enough _life_ to share with him.

"I will not see you more, will I?" she asks, guessing the answer. Still, she is happy enough to have here and now, at least.

"No. But I will be with you. Here," he says softly, pulling away and gently touching her temple. "And here," he says, lightly placing his hand over her heart.

She smiles at him tenderly, and lovingly touches his cheek, and oh, Maker, he closes his eyes briefly and leans into her hand, and that is a most precious sight. He kisses her palm, too.

"It's time for you to wake," he says.

She nods. "Yes." Then she smiles. "Kiss me goodbye, Duncan."

"A goodbye," he confirms. "Not a farewell."

She tilts her head, and he kisses her gently, and his kiss is warm like sunrays, just like the sunrays she feels warming her face when she wakes up. There is a faint mark on the inside of her palm, pale like an old scar, and seeing it she smiles, and closes her fingers around it. It will be her reminder.

"Thank you, Duncan." She smiles to her dream, trying to memorise every detail.

Later during the day, she takes a break from her duties and writes to Wynne. The letter is short, but each word is heartfelt.

_Maker bless you, Wynne. Whatever that was, Maker bless you for it._

. . .

She was grateful for that one dream and one talk on every step of the way. But when at the end of the road even Nathaniel, the trustworthy, down-to-earth, wonderfully reasonable Nathaniel faltered, she touched the mark on her palm and knew her answer.

What I have seen with my own eyes, she whispered back then. Maker, she still remembers the dungeons, and the bodies, and oh, yes, she has seen with her own eyes, though she wishes she has not. Whatever the Architect was, she could not allow him to continue his profanities. She did not allow him to.

Cousland sighs quietly. She is tired, so tired... They tried to save the city, and almost lost the Keep because of it. They lost Varel, and many others, good men who died protecting their land, but it does not make them any less dead. The victory is bitter. But still, after honouring the fallen, she attended the feast, and did all the smiling and necessary morale boosting.

And then she slipped out from the festivities and into her room, and scribbled a letter to Fergus, asking him to prepare a room for her, because she would go to Highever as quickly as possible.

The price of being a Warden seems too much when she cannot even be with her brother when he needs her most. But she swore an oath, and cannot back away now.

Yes, she will go to Highever, for a time. Maybe even establish another Warden outpost there. Fergus has little interest in the castle, and memories and duty are all that keeps him there. That, and having no other place to go. Certainly he has no interest in marrying again. It is too soon to think of such things, and Fergus is still grieving, but they are both Couslands, and she knows. He had sworn his love to his wife, and after she died he would never swear to another. It is not that they cling to their word despite all, but they value honour highly, highly enough never to speak oaths they do not intend to keep.

When she joined the Wardens, she did intend to keeps hers. Things have changed, since then, but the taint is in her veins now, and she would never find peace elsewhere.

A sound breaks her reverie. There are footsteps behind her, quiet, almost noiseless, but she recognises them. Nathaniel stops beside her, looking down the battlements.

It is surprising, really, how after everything a Cousland can get on with a Howe so well. Calling Nathaniel a twin soul would be an overstatement, and yet, despite all the differences, he agrees with her every decision. Well, has done that, up until recently.

"You still have doubts about my decision," she speaks softly, looking at the horizon, drawn by an invisible line under which the stars do not show. "Concerning the Architect," she clarifies.

Nathaniel shakes his head. "Doubts? No. I'm just wondering."

She focuses her eyes on the horizon line, trying to see through the night and find it. "There was no other way."

He watches her carefully. "How do you know that?"

"We're not the first Wardens to have met him." She closes her eyes. "There _is_ a middle-ground, where we wouldn't have to fight anymore... If we had let ourselves be infected. There..." she pauses, unsure how to say it. "There _were_ Wardens who tried it."

"Where are they now?" Nathaniel asks, probably already guessing the answer.

"Dead. They'd have eventually died of the taint, but they died trying to stop the Architect."

"That... makes things clearer, I guess." He glances at her. "How do you know all that?"

Again she closes her eyes briefly. "Duncan told me."

"The previous Warden-Commander, yes?" He waits for her nod before continuing. "You knew him?"

"You could say so."

They fall silent. Nathaniel keeps glancing at her hands, but finally asks.

"What happened to your palm?"

"I got burned," she answers cryptically. Yes, she thinks, I got burned, but now I carry the fire within me.


	2. Breeze

_I raised the rating to M. There'll be no explicit scenes of any sort, but I'd say the theme of the fic itself is adult enough for the rating to go up, just in case._

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><p><strong>II: Breeze<strong>

**. . .**

Nathaniel, observant as he is, guesses something is off, but he has no proof. Justice needs no proof; he can sense it. Cousland pretends she is busy with rebuilding the Keep and taking care of various matters of the arling, but she cannot avoid him forever.

"Commander," Justice says, stopping at the threshold respectfully and waiting for her invitation, even though the door is open.

"Justice." She forces a smile. "Come in."

"I think it's time Kristoff returned to his wife," Justice says without preamble.

Cousland looks at him. It is weird, to say the least, having him walking around in a corpse – no sense is trying to put it in milder words – but Justice is a friend. Kind of.

"What about you?" she asks quietly.

Kristoff's pale face doesn't move, because Justice still has not got expressing emotions right. But when Justice speaks, he sounds lost.

"I... don't know," he admits. "I haven't thought about it. I'll ask our mages if they have discovered a way for me to return to the Fade." Justice pauses, opens Kristoff's mouth to speak, then closes it.

"Yes?" she asks.

The almost unseeing eyes look at her carefully. "You carry traces of the Fade within you, Commander."

Cousland walks over to the high window, rests her hands on the sill and looks ahead, over the fields and woods of Amaranthine. "You sense it?" she asks curtly.

"It's like the taint." Justice pauses, pondering. "But different."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. There can be no mistake, she knows, feels, senses it, and yet... Demons can take on different forms, this is one of the rare topics the mages and the Chantry agree upon, and therefore worth consideration. And who knows how the Architect has meddled with them...

"Justice. You are a spirit."

"In a human body," he specifies.

"Yes, I know. But..." She takes another deep breath. "Justice, is this a demon? You would sense it, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," he replies after a while. "Yes, I would. Were it a demon, you would not be standing here, and I would have been the first to strike you down." Another pause. "No, Commander, 'tis no demon." Another pause, longer than before.

Cousland turns. Justice is standing immobile, eyes closed, focusing. Finally, the barely-seeing eyes open.

"One of your Grey Wardens..." Justice seems surprised by the discovery. "Yes, perhaps..." his voice is thoughtful. "You've been close to death, haven't you?" he asks. "Close enough to cross the border?"

"Once, for certain." She thinks of Ostagar, and of waking up in the witches' hut. "Maybe more than once."

"You would remember," Justice says simply. "You don't just forget being in the Fade. You would remember, like I do."

"It's different with you, Justice."

"Yes," the spirit answers, pensive. "Yes, it is different with me. I haven't been granted that blessing."

Cousland is shocked to hear a note of sorrow in his voice. And then she understands. He has Kristoff's memories, memories he does not quite comprehend, afterimages of feelings that are foreign to him... And that is, she realises, what grieves Justice so. He misses those things that are just there, on the border where he can almost touch them, and yet still an inch away from his grasp all the time. Yes, she understands.

"I am sorry, Justice," she offers, sincerely.

Justice glances up at her. "What for, Commander? You did me no wrong to be sorry about it."

"Not like in an apology, Justice," she explains patiently. "Like in sympathy."

He nods slowly. "I am a spirit. Once I return to the Fade, I will forget." There is a barely audible hint of fear in his voice, as if he was afraid he would not forget. His eyes fix on her face. "I will forget," he mutters. "And maybe that's a good thing."

. . .

_Anders is gone._ Nathaniel's words echo in her head over and over. She squeezes the crumpled paper in her hand even tighter. Anders is gone, Justice is gone, and she has a terribly bad feeling about that.

Cousland wants to yell, to throw something at the wall, to do _anything_. Instead, she takes a clean sheet of fine paper and a quill, throwing Anders' crumpled letter to the floor. You were right, Anders, she thinks grimly, ink and parchment will solve this. With a heavy sigh, she writes a warning to be sent to the Circles, the Chantry, the Templars, anyone willing to listen. With the letter, she signs a death warrant.

Carefully, she folds the paper in three, pours some wax over it, closes it with the seal of the arling of Amaranthine. Then with another seal, the Grey Wardens' griffon. With another sigh, she gets up and walks over to the open window, but the gentle summer breeze brings little comfort.

Cousland clutches her fingers at the windowsill. She thinks of Ostagar, and ser Jory's death. Unnecessary. And yet it had to be.

Did you feel like that, Duncan, she wonders, did you feel like that all the time? Does it feel different with a sword, not as deceitfully, horridly easy as with quill and parchment? She has fought, she has killed, but this is the first time she has actually sentenced someone to death. Duties of a Grey Warden are grim.

But she has been in the Circle, she has seen what can happen when magic turns the wrong way. And Anders is a Grey Warden, as she is, and that means he can sense Darkspawn, yes, but also that they can sense him. And the sudden disappearance of Justice... She has lived too close to the Fade of late not to fear the implications of all these facts, of how they seem to fit together.

Cousland calls a guard to ask him to deliver the letter to Nathaniel, who – thank the Maker for small mercies – will take care of it from now on. Then she closes the window, closes the door and goes into her bedchamber. She feels exhausted, drained. Who would have thought, she thinks grimly, that pushing a quill across a scrap of parchment could be so tiring?

She sheds her armour and slips into her nightgown. For a moment she contemplates leaving her hair pinned, but knows her head would ache for the whole next day if she did so. Sighing, she reaches up to undo her hair, taking the pins out and letting the braid fall down her back. She let her hair grow, and now plaits it – though no one will know – exactly as her mother used to plait hers.

If only she could go to Highever, just for a few days... Some time ago, the prospect would have been daunting. But now Fergus is there, and... despite everything that happened, Highever was her home, _is_ her home, for she has no other, it will always be home. Soon, she promises herself. Soon.

She drops onto the bed and puts her dagger beside it, a habit born out of months of living in constant danger. A reasonable habit for a Commander of the Grey, and an arlessa of Amaranthine who is a Cousland by birth.

She stops, mid-motion, runs her fingers gently along the hilt. Years ago, the dagger used to be Duncan's. Cousland tries to imagine traces of warmth, as if he had just handed her the weapon. This is pathetic, really – ah, when has she grown so cold, so utterly reasonable, so indifferent, how could it happen in a span of just a few months? – and she knows she should not cling to the memories so, but she cannot let go.

Am I more like you now, Duncan, she wonders, was it how you felt? Does it ever get easier? _Should_ it ever get easier? Would I still be a human being if it got so?

She closes her eyes, takes a breath. It will pass. All the pain will pass and it will be just like a dull ache you grow accustomed to... Except in the dark when nightmares return, and in the early hours before dawn when the world does not exist, except for worries and doubts and all the past mistakes, and...

Cousland glances at the faint mark on her palm, white, like an old burn. Quietly, she begins humming, then singing a melody, an old lullaby, the old Wardens' song... Her throat tightens suddenly and she can sing no more.

Carefully, she raises the dagger to her lips, as if it were a precious relic, and kisses the hilt. It is warm, and Cousland pretends it is not the warmth of her own hands that lingers there.

In her dreams, she returns to the familiar forest, and she walks the road to Ostagar again. But this time, she is alone.

When she wakes, she recalls all the precious memories. But the dream left her feeling so cold that even the memories cannot warm her up this time.

. . .

"Commander, you have a visitor..." Garevel has no chance to finish.

As soon as Cousland sees the man waiting for her, she breaks into a run, and in a moment she has her arms around his neck, holding on tightly as he spins her round, both laughing, both forgetting that she is Commander of the Grey and he is a teyrn.

"Fergus!" she exclaims, hugging her brother tighter. "Fergus," she repeats as she buries her face in his shoulder and allows herself a few tears of joy.

Fergus holds her and strokes her hair. "Little sister," he says tenderly, and his voice is hoarse with emotion. "Little sister..."

"So good to see you..."

When at last they pull away, Fergus smiles at her. His face is more wrinkled with worry than she remembers, his hair half-gone grey with grief, but the smile he gives her is brilliant, and truly happy, and reaches his eyes.

"You couldn't come to Highever," he says, "so I thought I'd bring a piece of Highever to you."

She cannot speak, her throat too tight for too much emotion and tears and sudden happiness, so she just puts her arms around Fergus' neck and hugs him, and he holds her. His cheek moves against her hair as he smiles again.

They dine together, and then sit in her office and share a bottle of wine. Long ago, before the Blight, before the demise of Highever, they would have found it difficult to stop talking for long enough to actually eat something, but now they do talk only a little. She knows how he is doing from his letters, and he knows how she fares from hers, and there are few meaningless things they can discuss, and both of them would rather not talk of the important things again, because their hearts need rest from painful memories and tears. They mostly share silence, and smile at each other, and find peace simply in being together. Fergus is her home now, the only home she has, and in his eyes she sees she is the same to him.

Later in the evening they are walking along the walls of the Keep, glancing up into the sky and naming constellations, just like they used to when they were both children.

"I've been thinking..." Fergus begins, pensive. "About home. Highever," he adds, as if that required clarification, and it hurts her to hear that as much as it pains him to say it.

"You're rebuilding the castle, aren't you?" she asks softly, knowing from his letters how the work is progressing.

"Yes, but it's not that." Fergus falls silent for a while. The war and the tragedy of Highever have taken away his easy jokes and most of his laughter, and turned him into a much more sombre man. "The castle seems too big and empty now that..." he breaks off. "Anyway, too big for me. I though your Wardens could use another outpost."

She stills, remembering the dream she has seen in the Fade. The price is high, she thinks bitterly. But then again, it would be better for Fergus not to live alone, and maybe she could move the Ferelden Wardens' headquarters there as well...

"You'd give Highever to the Wardens?" she asks gently, guessing how much it must cost him.

"To _you_," he answers. "And your Wardens." He does not say he has no one to give the castle to, because his son and heir is dead, but she knows he must be thinking that.

"That's a most generous gift," she says softly. "Thank you," she whispers, and hugs him, and for a brief moment she is a little girl again, and he her big brother.

"I just want to take you back home," he says, managing to find enough strength to smile at her and force light-heartedness into his tone, and she is immensely grateful for that.

They stop and stand side by side, both quiet, finding comfort in each other's presence. She looks into the starry sky, thinking of her brother and of home and her parents, and then of Duncan, and of how tangled the paths of life can be, and how there can be roses found among thorns, even if you have to scratch your hands until they are red with blood to reach the flowers.

"There's one more thing." Fergus says suddenly, breaking the silence. "I'd like to join the Wardens."

She feels her blood run cold. "No." She looks up at Fergus, then turns away from him so that he would not see the dread in her eyes. "No. Fergus, don't ask this of me. Please," she adds, and there is a note of despair in her voice that he surely cannot miss.

Fergus touches her shoulder and just watches her closely for some time. "That bad?" he asks quietly, his voice laced with sadness and regret, because he did not manage to protect his little sister from the world, and with resignation, because nothing can be done about it now.

She grips his hand. "I'm selfish in this," she says quietly, and it takes all of her willpower to keep her voice from shaking. "I won't risk losing you," she whispers, heedless she is betraying the Wardens' secrets, because her brother's life is worth more, and he will not speak of it to anybody is she asks him not to.

Fergus looks at her, and his gaze tells more that words can convey, but she strains not to read that.

"It's all right," she says reassuringly, and smiles. But what she thinks is a frantic no, please, no, I will not let you do this, brother, I will not...

She moved past the hardest times now, she has grown into her role, she has learnt much she would rather not have, but there was no other way. She looks up at Fergus and pats his hand, because the most difficult is behind her now, or so she hopes, and she does not want to see his compassion and helplessness and despair and love, because what is done is done and she cannot go back. It is not that terrible, brother, she thinks tenderly, grateful for all he offers nonetheless. Not that terrible, not anymore.

She wipes her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, then chokes on a sudden sob, because she has cried most of her tears in the Fade and now they come to her eyes again, because, Maker, Fergus is alive, and though it is selfish she will not let him make the sacrifice because _she_ would not be able to bear it. And were he to perish in the Joining...

"I'm sorry," she whispers into his shoulder as he holds her and strokes her hair.

"It's all right, pup," Fergus soothes, calling her like Father used to call her, because he _understands_.

It is not all right, not as it used to, and it will never be. And yet, in some weird way, it is all right again, and it is enough.

. . .

There is another letter from Redcliffe. Teagan writes how his nephew fares in the Circle, how they are finishing rebuilding the castle, sends arl Eamon's regards, and his own. He also mentions he is getting married, and though it is not official yet, invites her and Fergus to the wedding.

Teagan's letters are always friendly, warm, and sometimes it seems there is... Well, there is nothing more to them, only friendship, good and firm. But there is this tentative feeling that if not for the circumstances, if there was no need for him to marry – because of Connor being a mage and Eamon getting older – if not for that, and if she were not a Warden, and if Highever was never burnt down, and if the Blight never happened, and so many other ifs, all interwoven – if not for all that, there could have been more.

If things were different, if she were not a Warden, Teagan might have become her husband. He is a good friend, a kind, honest man, not without courage, and even though she does not love him, she _could_ learn to live with him.

"Another letter from Redcliffe?" asks Nathaniel, stepping out from the shadows covering the door into the small circle of light the candle gives, his eyebrows arched in question.

"How long have you been here?"

"Just got here." He glances over at the letter in her hand.

"It really shows so much?"

"No. I just know you so well." He smiles at her briefly. "So, what news from Redcliffe?"

"Same as before. Ah, and Teagan is getting married."

"You could've married him, you know," Nathaniel observes.

"After reclaiming my family's title? A teyrn's daughter marrying a bann?" she turns it all into a jest, and Nathaniel has the decency to laugh.

"A bann who will one day become an arl." He pauses. "You could've left."

She shakes her head. "You don't simply _leave_."

"Anders did."

She sighs. "You don't _stop_ being a Warden."

"But you regret that."

Cousland ponders his words for a while. She did regret. Since Highever up until the end of the Blight there were moments she regretted, and only the memory of her parents and the oath she had made kept her going on. There was grim determination and duty, and sometimes, flaring up like a sudden flame, there was the need for vengeance. And then... it all went away, she realises, dissolved into the Fade. Now... She wonders. There is duty, still, yes. But there is also purpose.

"I used to," she admits honestly. "But now I don't. Not anymore."

Nathaniel eyes her carefully. "What changed your mind?"

She smiles wistfully. "Someone once told me I became a Warden so that another woman could live peacefully with her family." She breaks off, trying to put her feelings into words. "I... I think I understand that, now." Another pause. "That doesn't stop me from wishing it could be me. But I know it never will." She smiles again, and Nathaniel looks baffled when he glances at her smile. "There are worse reasons for living, I guess, than keeping others safe."

"I guess..." He is thoughtful, his brows knit together.

"So, what about you?" Cousland asks in a lighter tone, returning to their earlier topic.

"Are you serious?" Nathaniel laughs incredulously. "Can you imagine any ladies marrying a _Howe_, after everything? No? Me neither."

She smiles gently. "Guess we're stuck together."

"Seems so." The corner of Nathaniel's mouth quirks up. "Well, at least I can tease Velanna."

She laughs a little at that, and Nathaniel finally gives up and chuckles, but they both sober quickly. They stay up on the walls of the Keep for some time, not talking anymore, both lost in thoughts.

Cousland looks at the clear summer sky and countless stars, so beautiful, so brilliant, inhales the cool air deeply, smiles as she feels the gentle gust of wind on her face. She looks at Nathaniel's silhouette in the darkness, and thinks of her friends and fellow Wardens, and thinks of Fergus and smiles again, wishing her brother goodnight in her thoughts. Despite all that happened, despite what she might have thought earlier, despite _all_, the world proves worth living in it.

Later, when she gets into bed, again she thinks of life, and purpose. She has promised she would live. Now, knowing Fergus is alive, being able to see him from time to time, and writing to him regularly, she can keep to her word and can live again. Exchanging quiet, dry jests with Nathaniel, having found friendship where she had expected enmity, she can live. Getting a letter from Wynne, Alistair or Leliana, she can live. Knowing she will soon be congratulating Teagan on his wedding day, she can live. Imagining Highever rebuilt, certain her brother will see that done, counting days to pass until their next meeting, she can live.

But at the end of the day, when she is plaiting her hair for sleep, and when everything is quiet, she remembers, and smiles to the dreams she used to have. She takes a cup of mead, sits across her bed, leaning against the wall and drawing her knees up, closes her eyes and allows herself something she has not truly done since leaving Highever that fateful night: she dreams. The dream she conjures is sweet like the taste of mead on her tongue, and warm like Duncan's shoulder, and has the familiar texture of his hands in hers.

And though there are no more dream encounters, for a moment, on the verge of sleep, she feels something, something intangible like a change in the air, like a quiet sigh, like a lightest breath. And she knows that as she dreams of him, on his long watch in the Fade Duncan dreams of her.


	3. Tempest

_And now, after a short dalliance with DAI and writing a Trevelyan/Blackwall fanfic, back to lady Cousland and Duncan. I've also started writing a Duncan-centred story, _Silverite_, so if you like Duncan, you might want to check it out :)_

_Thank you for the reviews!_

* * *

><p><strong>III: Tempest<strong>

**. . .**

It starts innocently enough. She wakes from another nightmare – she is used to them by now, though it makes them no less horrid, but she has had worse during the Blight – and recalls the call of the Old Gods, or the archdemon, the melody of the taint that pulses in her blood with every heartbeat. But this time, it has a soothing, alluring note to it.

Cousland washes her face with cold water, gasping. Not bothering to reach for a towel, water dripping from her forehead and cheeks, she straightens, to glance in the mirror. There are only faintest lines at the corners of her eyes, barely any silver threads in her hair.

She knows the Calling is supposed to come faster to those who survived a Blight, even more so to those who joined during one. But despite that knowledge the only thought that echoes, rattles through her mind is: so soon?

There are so many things waiting to be done, so many duties unfinished. So much time that needs to be spent with her friends. So much time she needs to spend with Fergus...

"Oh, Duncan," she whispers, "how right you were. How right..."

"I wish it wasn't so."

Cousland whirls, but there is no one in the room. And yet she is certain she heard the voice clearly. Even after all the years she would never mistake that voice for anyone else's.

Then, slowly, holding her breath, she looks into the mirror. Duncan's face is looking at her from the glass... And then she blinks, and the image is gone, and she is alone in her chamber.

She rubs her fingers in gentle circles across her temples, as if that could help. As if anything could help. Maker, was that what Justice meant back then, when he said she carried traces if the Fade within her? Was that...

And then she recalls a dream, and her plea to Duncan, and how she asked, almost begged him to be with her. But Maker, like _this_? Instead of the joy she anticipated, she feels dread creeping down her spine in droplets of cold sweat. Is it to be like _this_? Is this treasured feeling to turn into a nightmare?

I am just tired, she thinks, just too tired. And so she closes her eyes again, lies on her bed, though she doubts she will be able to fall asleep again... And then, before she knows it, she slips back into dreams.

When she opens her eyes in the dream, she is standing at the open window of her office, looking over the lands and at the starry skies. There is a presence beside her, and the taint in her blood sings, but that song different than the archdemon's, not that alluring, but oh, so bittersweet, and she knows.

"Duncan," she whispers, tired, closes her eyes and turns, leaning towards him, trusting his hands to guide her to him. She rests her head on his shoulder and sighs quietly.

"I am sorry," he whispers, his voice a warm huff against her skin as he lowers his head a little. "I am sorry, my lady. I didn't want to scare you."

Cousland laughs a little, but her laughter is shaky, threatening to crumble into tears any moment now. "I called you," she realises. "But I've done so many times before, and you never came, because of our agreement. Why now?"

Duncan holds her to him, cradles her head in a protective gesture, as if he could shield her from the world. As if it was not far too late for that. "You know why," he replies softly.

He cannot shield her, she realises, he never could. But he gave her the strength to go on, during those first, most difficult days and weeks and months.

"So soon?" she echoes her own earlier question.

"I am sorry," Duncan says gently. "I wish you had more time. I wish..." he breaks off.

"I wish that, too." Her fingers dig into his tunic as she bunches the material in her hands. "That I had more time, for my brother, my friends, even my duties. You've understood that all along, haven't you? You understood that back when I was in the Fade."

"Yes."

They both fall silent, and that's when she hears it. There melody of the Calling is quiet, nonexistent for the moment, and there is nothing but the common song of the taint in their veins, flowing at the same rhythm, as if they only had one heart... Which they have, because he is but a spirit.

Duncan is the first to break the silence. "You must rest, my lady."

" 'My lady'?" She smiles a little. "And where's that come from?"

"You are a lady, aren't you?" His voice is so soft that Cousland wishes she could burrow into it, or drown in it, and stay like that until the end.

Her eyelids grow heavy, too heavy, and opening her eyes proves too great an effort. Duncan scoops her up in his arms and carries her to her chamber, lays her gently on the bed and covers her with the quilt.

Before he can leave, she grasps his wrist. "Stay," she mutters. "Stay."

He sits on the bed beside her, then reaches out and strokes her hair in tender, soothing motions, and she feels herself drifting into sleep. That night, there are no more nightmares, no whispers and no Calling, only soft, welcoming darkness and warmth that feels like Duncan's arms around her.

. . .

The snowflakes whirl slowly in the air, in an enchanted dance, and buried under the soft coverlet of snow the Keep, among white snow covered forests and under the starry sky, looks unreal, a place out of dreams. When Cousland turns, there is a movement at the edge of her vision, but she is used to that by now, to the constant presence at the edge of her senses, light and tender like the first snow.

She closes her eyes and takes a few more steps, and she hears the softest footsteps echo in rhythm with her own, coming to a halt a moment after she stops. When she takes a breath, she can almost hear the slight huff, almost feels warm air moving over her cheek. She cannot see him clearly, not yet, at least, but on nights like this she can picture him beside her, wrapped in a thick cloak, his skin and hair a stark contrast to the whiteness of snow and to the coldness of winter...

"If you stay the night up here, you'll freeze to death," speaks a voice which is not Duncan's.

Cousland muses whose have been the steps she has heard earlier... And then decides, against her better judgement and all her sensibility, that she would rather not know. Does it matter, anyway, when she is so close to her Calling?

"You're supposed to be my second-in-command, not my nanny, Nathaniel."

"Thinking, again?" Nathaniel stops next to her, paying no heed to her little taunt.

"Talking," she explains curtly. "To the memories," she adds with a smile.

There is something strange in Nathaniel's eyes as he looks at her. "That smile scares me," he admits. "And not many things scare me."

She glances at him. "Scares you in what way?"

"It's..." Nathaniel pauses, and frowns, thoughtful. "It looks as if you saw things that should not be seen by us, mortals. If that makes any sense."

"I'm not certain you want to hear my answer."

"Maker's breath, it really gives me creeps when you smile like that."

"I'm sorry, Nate."

"Don't be." He sighs. "_I_ am sorry, I shouldn't have... But sometimes you have that look in your eyes, as if you were seeing something I can't, and that look on your face as if it was obvious it was there, and..."

"Memories," she says softly. "So yes, it's no surprise you cannot see that."

"There are weirdest tales told about your recovery after the battle of Denerim," Nathaniel says quietly.

"I suppose most of them are just tales."

"Not many things make Oghren serious. Those tales do."

She sighs. "What do you want me to say, Nate? The truth? I don't know what happened. I remember things, and I choose to believe it was that way."

"That elderly mage who's staying with us, your old companion, Wynne... Sometimes she looks next to you, and I'd swear she smiles. And once I saw her raise her cup to thin air."

She smiles. "You see, there's a certain Warden..."

" 'There's' like in 'is' or 'was'?" he asks, perceptive, as usually.

"As in both."

"Maker's breath... Don't say we have a ghost..."

"A spirit, Nate. A soul. But it's not like with Justice. He remains in the Fade." Another smile, pensive, and also intimate, so much that Nathaniel turns away not to look at it. "He also remains close to me. The taint, the Fade, it's all connected, though it would take Wynne to explain it. Perhaps she doesn't know how to explain it, either." She pauses. "When I was recovering... I was on the verge of death, Nate. I've been in the Fade. I've seen where Grey Wardens may choose to go if they want to serve further, and there is no need to fear death, there is only fear of leaving those we love, of being separated from them."

"That, obviously, is not true for you and him," Nathaniel remarks, and then watches with mild curiosity as she, for the first time he knows of, blushes.

"The Wardens may choose to remain, ah, in-between. I gave my word I will not say more." She smiles, still a little uncomfortable. "I see him in dreams, sometimes. Talk to him..."

"Fine, fine, got it!" Nathaniel raises his hands in a defensive gesture. "Spare me the details, I beg you!"

She laughs out, and there it is, a hint of smile on his face as a corner of his lips crooks up.

"Oh, Nate, Nate... You spend too much time with Oghren."

Nathaniel snorts. "But I still retain my dignity. Oghren would have kept asking for details, or would have just made up his own. Maker, I don't even know which of those prospects is more scary."

"Both, equally," she replies.

Nathaniel smiles, and then his smile widens, and then finally it turn into a full laugh. "Point for you, Commander."

"I'm still so many points behind you I've lost count a few times already."

"Sorry about prying," he says frankly. "I was worried."

"It's all right. And very nice to have someone worrying for me... Thought I'd rather you didn't have to worry."

"Peculiar, aren't we?" Nathaniel asks, with that dry humour of his, but there is also seriousness to his remark. That of all people they both, with all their family history, have become such good friends... Nathaniel has even managed to win Fergus' grudging respect, over time, and Fergus has earned his.

"Yes," she replies, thinking that Nathaniel has become closer than a friend. He is like a brother to her. She feels guilt, suddenly, even though her decision had been understandable and most reasonable at the time. "Nathaniel, I... I am sorry I forced you to join the Wardens."

"I'm not." He shrugs. "Strange, but I found my purpose here, with the Grey. That certainly is something."

"Still, I am sorry. I had hoped you would die in the Joining."

"Don't be ridiculous. I had sneaked into the Keep to murder you... Which, by the way, I am sorry about, too. But we can't keep on remembering all our mistakes endlessly."

Briefly, she smiles. "You'll make an excellent Warden-Commander one day, my friend."

Nathaniel looks at her, and there is grim understanding in his eyes. "So soon?"

"I joined during the Blight, remember? It goes more quickly for me. And no, not yet. But soon, I think."

Nathaniel nods. "We'll give you the best feast the Wardens have ever seen. You'll be so drunk you won't find your way into the Deep Roads. Maker, I _do_ spend too much time around Oghren, apparently..."

She laughs merrily, and then briefly hugs him. "Thank you, Nate. Thank you." When the time comes, it will hurt to say farewell to him. Almost as much as it will hurt to say farewell to Fergus. "For your humour. For your strength and sensibility. For your friendship." She puts a hand on his shoulder, and smiles at him fondly, warmly. "For being like a brother to me."

Nathaniel watches her for a good while, then mirrors her gesture. "Thank you, for your trust, and friendship." Briefly, he smiles, and there is odd tenderness to it. "Sister."

"And now enough of all the morbid thoughts. Let's go down and watch Wynne drinking Oghren under the table, shall we?"

. . .

When she enters her bedroom, there is a movement, just at the edge of her vision, but she sees it clearly: a silhouette of a man. She freezes, reaches for her dagger... But there is no feel of danger, only the familiar song of the taint in her veins... Ah. So that is how it begins for real.

"Duncan?" she whispers.

And there it is again, just a flicker, barely visible, like a momentary change in the air, and for a blink of an eye he stands right _there_, before her. She blinks, not believing her sight, but her taint answers to him, so there can be no mistake.

At first, she was afraid, and there was vague fear, and dread... But then her longing took over and she pushed reason away, and it only took a few days to welcome the change, and now she looks forward to every flicker in the air that tells her Duncan is indeed by her side, always. Somewhere deep inside, the sensible part of her whispers a warning that she has felt it once before, in the Circle tower, trapped in dreams, there is that familiar feeling that this is what she has been dreaming about and it is here, she just has to reach out and take it, and it is oh so easy... Too easy, her mind whispers, it should not be that easy for it never is, for no one.

When she falls asleep, in her dream she opens her eyes to find herself in her bed, but in Duncan's arms. He is holding her tenderly, protectively. Her shelter, her safe haven.

"Sleep," he mutters softly, and kisses her hair. "Sleep, my lady."

"I do have a name, you know." She shifts a little, nestling herself more comfortably in his embrace. "Why such a sudden change?" she asks.

"Souls can yearn," he answers quietly.

She puts her palm over his, and twines their fingers. She feels Duncan smile against her hair.

"Not a lonely watch, now?" she breaths.

"No," he whispers. There is a note of sadness, even sorrow to his voice, but she ignores it. Just as she ignores how his hand, holding onto hers tightly, trembles, just a little, but Duncan's hands have always been sure and strong and steady, so why this...

"Duncan?" she mumbles sleepily.

"Hush," he whispers. "Sleep now." And then he moves, starts getting up, but she reaches out for him.

"Please, don't leave me," she begs quietly, like a frightened child.

Still, he hesitates.

"Please," she repeats, pleading. "Please, Duncan. Nights are so cold and empty without you..."

He inhales, a deep shaky intake of breath, but complies and lies beside her, embraces her, shields her in his arms, and she relaxes. Just before her eyes close, she feels something wet fall onto her hair and, barely lucid, she wonders why is it raining when they are inside.

. . .

The nights, so cold and empty and lonely for so many years, despite the dreams she conjured, are now calm and safe and warm. There is the familiar song of the taint in her veins, but the notes of the Calling are quiet, and instead there is Duncan's soft murmur, lulling her into a state between wakefulness and dreaming, lulling her into happiness. They talk of different things, of the Wardens and of history, tales and legends, and then of each other's lives, always careful to ask only about good things, or little inconsequential details people are often so fond of when remembering.

This time, however, Duncan mentions something else, something that has always been there, understood even though unspoken. This time, he offers her an answer for the question she has never been brave enough to ask: why.

"I wanted to drown the first notes of the Calling out for you." He pauses, and sighs. 'I know I shouldn't. But there would have been nightmares, and you've had enough of those..."

"Comfort is not always the best choice," she mutters bitterly,. But she understands now, oh, she understands that well. Her fingers keep softly trailing vague patterns across the back of his hand, to let him know she has made her peace with that.

"I am sorry you had to learn that," he confesses. "I... I wish you could have had a calm, quiet life. One you dreamed of."

"You must have been watching my dreams without any attention at all, then, for the last few years," she murmurs, and turns her head a little, smiling. All she had ever wanted when she was younger, a dozen years ago – _ages_ ago – was a calm, quiet life. So little. So very much. But since she could not have that, she started dreaming of other things.

Duncan kisses her cheek. "That was not what you wanted."

"That is what I want now." Now all she wishes for is to return home before she will have to go to her Calling, to spend some time with her brother. And to see Duncan. For all those years, since Denerim, that is all she has ever wished for.

"I shouldn't..."

"No, you shouldn't." She sits up abruptly, slipping out from his embrace, and turns. She looks down at him, pressing her hand against his tunic, right over his heart. "But you are here, Duncan of the Grey Wardens. Why?"

He stares back at her calmly. "You know why." His answer, when he gives it, is quiet.

"Yes, I think I know." It strikes her again, how it has always been her to initiate things between them. Duncan is not a man that would have said yes just to avoid disappointing her, because that would not be better in the long run, but that is all the more reason she wants, no, she _needs_ to hear it from him, just once. "But I want you to say it."

He watches the emotions burning in her eyes, and listens to her thoughts, and his gaze warms, and he looks up at her with that infinite tenderness and fondness, and... She holds her breath as he opens his mouth to speak.

"Because against my better judgement, against everything, I've been drawn to you ever since that talk on one of the Highever towers." He puts his hand over hers, pressing her palm to his heart. "I did not leave because I wanted to be able to watch over you. I am here now because I have been watching you for years. And whatever it was I felt before, over time it has turned to love."

"Duncan..."

He reaches up to cup her face, and when he brushes his thumb across her cheek, the pad of his finger leaves a wet trail. "Shhh. Don't weep."

She lies down beside him and hides her face in his tunic, and he holds her to him.

"Hush," he murmurs, soothing, stroking her hair. "Hush. Sleep now, my lady."

. . .

At first she had to almost plead, then it was enough to ask, and now she does not even have to say anything and still he comes to her every night, and her dreams are warm shadows and warm voice rather that the screeching whispers of the darkspawn and the eerie melody of the taint. She has heard it, during those few night he has not been at her side, and it has sounded beautiful, and each time that has left her cold with dread.

But for weeks – months, even – it has been Duncan, always Duncan, his warm eyes and warm smile, always tinged with melancholy or perhaps some sorrow that he has never spoken of. Or perhaps it is one of the sorrows he has told her about; each time she asks, he only smiles at her, and touches her cheek as if she were something precious, and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead.

She loves it when he kisses her. It feels real, very much so, but also it does not: each time it feels as if not only their lips touched, but their souls. Duncan rarely offers words, but she needs none: she can feel everything he feels for her, the tenderness and the yearning, and the love. Within the walls of her dream, the world is only him and her, and even though she can see and sense the cracks where it shattered, years ago, here everything seems mended.

So when the night falls, she closes her eyes to drown in the dream. And this time, Duncan is already waiting for her, and reaches out to greet her, to embrace her and pull her close for a kiss.

This time his kiss is different than before, still devoid of passion, but there is a strange urgency to it, and a hunger. She falls into him, melts into his embrace, pays no heed to anything else because he is there, beside her, and he loves her...

Duncan pulls away suddenly, steps back, a horrified look on his face.

"Forgive me," he stammers, unsure what to do, and there is real fear in his eyes, a look she knows because she has seen it before the battle of Ostagar.

Her heart aches, because she does not wish him to fear, for why should he? Does he think she is afraid of him, for some reason? That is nonsense, she could never fear, not him, never him, not him who is her heart and soul and life.

She reaches up to touch him, cradles his face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his cheeks, and looks deeply into his eyes. "There's nothing to forgive," she whispers softly, tenderly, and gently presses her lips to his.

For a moment Duncan does not move, still like a stone, and then he sighs and puts his arms around her. When they part to catch their breaths, there is anguish in his eyes, but she does not understand, for there is no reason it should be so, and tries to soothe him with kisses, and with another sight he gives in, and their embrace melts away all their worries, and he holds her a little tighter than he usually does, and his kisses take on a little more depth, and the sensations are a little more vivid this time, and everything seems even more real than usually.

There is a tiny voice at the back of her mind screaming that she should not feel so happy because something is _off_ and this is _not_ right, but she feels _elated_, and ignores it.


End file.
